


Bad Ideas

by kally77



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Buffy Wishverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:31:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Crush, Drusilla wishes the Slayer had never come to Sunnydale. Ensues a string of Bad Ideas that conspire to bring Angel and Spike together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iseult1124](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iseult1124/gifts).



### Prologue

Pursing her lips, Drusilla watched her Spike hurry off after the silly little girl. Silly, silly, both of them. Her for not seeing that he had meant every word he had said – except maybe the part about killing her; he loved her too much for that, as much as it chagrined the pixies. Him for thinking a Slayer could ever look at him and see all the pretty colors and flames that swirled around him. Drusilla had loved those from the very first time she had caught a glimpse of his tearful face.

“What now?” she asked the night, looking up at the stars. “My mommy-daughter is all gone and my sweet William won’t come back to me. Who will dance with me now?”

The stars laughed. Drusilla was cross. Rubbing her wrists where Spike had bound her, she started walking through the graveyard. Bondage could have been such fun; like old times. But Spike didn’t seem to remember, not anymore than her daddy did.

“All Daddy’s fault,” she muttered. Maybe she would go back to L.A. and… She tilted her head, listening intently. Daddy was still mad at her, or so the stars said. Still mad, period. He had lost his head, the same way Spike had.

“Bad Daddy.” She clucked her tongue as she stepped lightly between two fresh tombs, plucking up a half-wilted rose. It smelled like sweetness and death, and a bit like Angel when he had closed that door, showing just a peek of Angelus. She sighed and repeated again, “Bad Daddy.”

“I can fix it.”

For a second, Drusilla thought it was the stars talking to her again, or maybe the pixies. She raised her hands to the sky, offering herself.

“Yes! Help me, please!”

A discreet cough brought her eyes back down. Puzzled, she looked at the woman standing just a few feet away with her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Drusilla frowned in distaste at the heavy curls framing her face – curls were for dirty little cherubs with those dangerous golden bows. Her necklace, though, was lovely, shimmering under the moon and singing a sweet song of promises. Captivated, Drusilla danced her way closer, her steps light on the dewy grass.

“Shining like a fire of tears,” she murmured, reaching out for the necklace. “Does it burn?”

The woman batted her hand away. Drusilla gave her a wounded pout. “No candy for you,” she said, but Curly didn’t seem to be upset.

“Did you hear me?” 

Curly sounded impatient, like she had a rainbow to follow and leprechauns to eat. Would she share, Drusilla wondered? Leprechauns were supposed to be very tasty but she had never managed to catch one.

“I can make it all better if that’s what you wish.”

“All better?” Drusilla repeated, bringing her hand to her face and only remembering she held a rose when the petals caressed her cheek. It didn’t hurt much anymore, but the memory burned. “Daddy hurt me,” she whined.

Curly sighed. “I know. That’s why I’m here. But he’s not the only one who made you mad, is he? I heard you talk of the Slayer?”

A scowl returned to Drusilla’s face and she nodded jerkily. “It’s all because of the Slayer. She put lights in Daddy’s eyes and in my William’s heart. Bad Slayer.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it!” 

Curly was beaming now, and her teeth gleamed almost as nicely as fangs. Drusilla passed her tongue over her teeth. She was getting hungry. She had eaten earlier with Spike but now she wanted more. She wondered if Curly would taste like cherub’s blood. She wondered, also, what cherubs tasted like. Were they anything like leprechauns?

“She’s a home wrecker, isn’t she? Don’t you wish your daddy had never met her?”

Drusilla blinked, unsure what Curly was talking about. Had Angel ever met a cherub? She watched the woman with clearer eyes. There was something about her… She smelled… different. Old, older than her pretty face, but not in the same way vampires were old. “What?” she asked distractedly.

“You wish the Slayer—”

Drusilla blinked again, baring her teeth in a grimace. “The Slayer is a bad girl. She shouldn’t play with toys that aren’t hers.”

Long fingers clutched those dancing curls. “Oh for crying—” Curly took a deep breath and smiled at Drusilla, but her eyes were daggers, shining with steel and blood. “But what do you _wish_?” she asked in her sweetest voice yet.

Sweet and dangerous; Drusilla was beginning to like Curly – just a little. “This could have been my sandbox. Mine and Daddy’s and my Spike’s. But she had to be here and ruin it all.”

“So you wish she had never been here?”

Drusilla wasn’t sure why Curly looked so excited suddenly, or why she was holding her breath. Still, if her new friend wanted an answer… “Yes?“

Curly let out a quiet, “Good enough,” and then said, very formally, “Done.”

The world shifted around Drusilla, making her dizzy for a second. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Curly was gone. Wide eyed, Drusilla twirled, looking for her, unable to find her. She clapped. What a beautiful trick! She wished she could have flown, too. Then she could have reached the stars rather than having to content herself with looking up at them. She raised her eyes to the sky, looking, still, for Curly. Maybe she had wings like cherubs. She saw nothing but glittering fairies, and when they whispered to her she smiled, clapping again. 

“Yes, that’s a lovely idea. I bet they do have wild cherries in Paris.”

As she left Sunnydale, she never noticed that anything – everything – had changed.

### Part 1

His last cigarette dangling from his lips, Spike strode into the liquor store. The man behind the counter made some noise about smoking inside his shop, but a cold stare from Spike quieted him down soon enough. Trying not to feel foolish, Spike picked up one of those little plastic baskets. It clashed with the image he was trying to project, but after all, he intended to leave with more bottles than he had hands. Juggling with bottles of fine liquors and breaking one or two would be worse than looking so thoroughly domestic if another vampire happened to come in.

He scowled at the thought. If another vamp came in, it wouldn’t matter what Spike carried or what he looked like. The snickering would come quickly, if not the full out taunting. Somehow, the idiots didn’t seem to understand – Spike couldn’t lay a finger on a human, true, but he had no trouble beating up, maiming, eviscerating, beheading or otherwise dusting anything that was other than human, and especially if this _anything_ thought his situation was funny in any way.

He had reached the vodka display and stood in front of it, studying it thoughtfully. Any bottle would work quite well in getting him drunk, but Spike didn’t want merely to get drunk. He wanted to do so in style. If he couldn’t get blood – real blood, straight from a vein, not that overpriced crap that Willy sold at the bar – then he wanted the next best thing. Expensive alcohol. The kind that burned your throat going down but not because it was closely related to battery acid. The kind other people sipped from crystal glasses while listening to classical music. He picked the best bottle and moved on to the whiskey aisle to make his choice there too. Then the scotch aisle; two bottles there, because he couldn’t quite make up his mind. He turned up his nose at the beer fridge before noticing the imported lagers. Nostalgia took him, not that he would have admitted as much, and a pack of the good stuff joined the bottles in his shopping basket. And then, just because he could, just because it was there and caught his eyes, he grabbed a bottle of champagne. Hell knew he didn’t have anything to celebrate, but again, it was all about getting smashed in style.

He looked down at his selection, nodding to himself. That would keep him busy for a couple days. That was the thing with not feeding often enough; he couldn’t quite hold his liquor like he used to. At least, it made it easier to get completely and thoroughly drunk.

Returning to the counter, he set the basket in front of the clerk and, shifting to his game mask, pulled the cigarette from his lips. He ground what was left of it on the wooden counter and pointed at the cartons behind the wide-eyed man.

“Add a couple of those.”

The man’s hands were shaking so hard when he reached for the cigarettes that he dropped them. With a small sound of dismay, he bent down and picked them up, throwing Spike a pleading look.

“Please… I’ve got a family… I don’t—”

“Make sure you doublebag the bottles, then. You don’t want me to come back because they broke halfway down the street, do you?”

He punctuated the question with a smile – a very toothy, very fangy smile. The man practically jumped and hurriedly bagged Spike’s bottles and cigarettes.

“There you go,” Spike said on his most obnoxious tone. “That’s a good lad. Now give me what’s in the register too and I’ll leave without a fuss. Wouldn’t you like that?”

The man didn’t reply. Sweat pearling on his forehead, he looked up at the camera in the corner behind him before opening the register and pulling out what seemed like a depressingly small amount of cash. Spike frowned, mentally cursing credit cards and the age of cashless purchases.

“There… there you go,” the man said, thrusting two fistfuls of bills at Spike. 

They disappeared in his coat’s pockets in a flash before he picked the two bags on the counter.

“A pleasure to shop with you,” he said, flashing his fangs again. “I’ll be sure to return soon for more.”

The man’s fear was unmistakable, both in his eyes and in the smell of warm piss now rising from him. Satisfied that, harmless or not, he could still terrorize with the best of them, Spike strode out of the store, sliding back into his human visage but keeping his smirk firmly in place. It stayed right there as Spike walked a block down the street, but disappeared when he saw the group of wankers coming his way. Too late to hide, now, they had seen him, and he refused to run from them. He kept walking as though he didn't have a care in the world; as though he wasn’t about to cross paths with three humans carrying crossbows and stakes – with the know-how to use them, too – and a complete bastard that looked not only dumb but constipated, quite a feat for a vampire.

It would have been hard to miss Angel’s glare, directed first at him, then at the bottles. Spike snorted. Maybe the soul had fucked up the bastard’s memory, but Spike’s was perfectly clear on who had taught him to steal – and to drink like a man.

“Did you think about it?” Rupert Giles asked, his voice expressionless.

Spike shifted his eyes to the man. He was supposedly a Watcher, and he certainly had the accent for it, but he seemed to lack the essential part of that gig – a Slayer. Spike liked the man even less for the fact that he owed him his life.

“No,” he replied, his tone biting.

The Watcher managed to roll his eyes without ever seeming to look away from Spike. “Then do think about it,” he said, his tone sharper now. “You said yourself you enjoy beating up demons—”

“Yes I thought about it,” Spike interrupted him. Damn, but he wished he had lit up a fag before leaving the store. He didn’t want to start rummaging in his bags now. “No I don’t want to join your merry band of wankers.”

He gave a dismissive look to the two boys – because however much they had fought, Initiative-bred experiments, demons and vampires alike, they were still no more than kids. They bristled at his glance, the taller one clenching his fingers a little more tightly on his crossbow while the second one took a half step forward. 

Giles raised a hand, calming his attack dogs without even looking at them. He had trained them well. “Why not?” He tilted his chin down, indicating the bags Spike held, one in each hand. “I’d pay you. You wouldn’t need to scare shopkeepers anymore.”

Barely managing to suppress his growl, Spike started forward, straight toward the two kids. They leapt out of his way. One of them even gasped. 

“Maybe I like people to be scared of me,” he said as he passed the group.

“And maybe you’d like a staking, good and proper while we’re here.”

He threw a glance at Angel over his shoulder and shuffled his bags to hold both of them in his right hand – freeing him to give the souled bastard a two-finger salute. He hadn’t taken three steps that the slashing sound of a fired crossbow reached him – just before he heard the crash of his bottles tumbling to the pavement. He looked down at the mess of glass, bubbles, fragrant alcohol and ruined tobacco, then turned to see who had fired. Giles was just then lowering his crossbow. Without thinking, Spike shifted to game face and lunged forward. Searing pain exploded in his head, and he barely missed falling to his knees in front of them. He stopped, hands pressed to his temples, and tried to empty his mind so the goddamned chip would stop firing.

“There’s enough fear going around this town,” Giles said darkly. “Next time you play this game, it’s not the bottles I’ll stake.”

Furious at the man – and even more furious that there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do to him – Spike turned on his heel and strode away. Blinded by his anger, he barely even noticed where he was going and only stopped when he entered Willy’s. He ignored the few snickers that greeted his entrance and went straight to the bar. Only when Willy stood in front of him, an eyebrow raised questioningly, did he fish out of his pocket the cash he had stolen. He swallowed a curse as he quickly counted how much he held in his hand. Enough to get a couple of drinks – cheap ones, at that – or to get some blood.

The hunger gnawing at his middle decided for him. With a glowering look at Willy, he slapped the bills on the counter and sat on a stool. “Blood,” he grunted, and proceeded to chip at whatever was left of his nail polish as he waited to be served. His mood must have transpired somehow, because no one came to poke fun at him, or remarked, in a too loud whisper, that fangless vampires were really pitiful, weren’t they?

He was mad at that bloody Watcher for breaking his bottles. Mad at him, too, for making yet again that offer to Spike – he must have been desperate, and Spike didn’t care much for desperate causes. He was mad at the fucking Master for demanding that he and Dru come to Sunnyhell to witness what should have been his crowning hour, mad at the Initiative for playing with his brain and making him all but harmless to humans, mad at Dru for abandoning him when vampires, soldier boys and the fucking Mayor had had their final three-way showdown, mad at the entire bloody town for going on as though nothing had happened, as though they didn’t know, now, that nightmares walked their streets.

Mostly, though, he was mad at himself for letting all this happen to him. 

He drank his blood, grimacing all the way yet cleaning the inside of the glass with his finger not to lose a drop. As nasty as the stuff was, he was starving, and one glass wouldn’t even start to appease his hunger. Fresh out of cash and thirstier than ever, he eyed the bottles behind the counter. Alcohol didn’t help the hunger, but it dulled the pain of it. Still, he managed to leave before making a fool out of himself and asking Willy for a drink on the house.

He cursed the entire way back to his crypt. He half wished he’d run across a demon to let his frustration and anger run free along with blood, but he knew better than to hunt one down. He didn’t have enough blood in him to make it a good fight. He was in a mood darker than hell when he pushed open the door of his crypt. It only got worse as he realized Angel was in there, waiting for him.

### Part 2

Angel held his tongue until they had finished with the night’s patrol. When they walked out of the graveyard, Giles sent the two boys away with repeated advice about ice, disinfectant and rest and, as soon as they had walked away, he turned a raised eyebrow to Angel.

“Not that you’re ever loquacious, but you’ve surpassed yourself tonight. Any reason for the sudden loss of your tongue?”

Angel grunted. Giles knew perfectly well why he was annoyed. 

“It’s a bad idea,” he said, repeating words he had voiced too many times since, during their near-catastrophic infiltration of the Initiative compound, Giles had thought it necessary to take home a sample demon – Spike. “He can’t bite but that doesn’t make him harmless. We should have staked him as soon as you figured out what they had done to him.”

For a long moment, Giles didn’t reply. He slung the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder and – Angel could have rolled his eyes at how predictable the man was – tugged his glasses off his nose while pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Only when he had started polishing the spotless lenses did he say what was on his mind. “You’re hardly harmless yourself.”

A jolt of annoyance ran through Angel. His body tensed and he stood a little straighter, looming over Giles. “I have—”

“A soul, yes,” Giles interrupted him, his voice perfectly level. “I know. So do I. And so do most people condemned for murder. A soul is no guarantee. I’ll confess I trust the Initiative’s hardware more than I do a gypsies’ spell.”

Angel’s fists closed. He shoved them into his jacket’s pockets and, turning away, started walking down the street. His steps slapped the pavement, heavy and sharp. After all he had done for Giles, after all the help he had given the man, this was how he was thanked? With his opinions dismissed and his devotion to the fight questioned? 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the help,” Giles said as he caught up with him. He didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “You’ve certainly been very helpful these past years.”

Angel snorted. He had been so helpful that Giles was trying to recruit another vampire to help him and his underage troops. Not just any vampire, but _Spike_ , of all people. Maybe the world truly had gone to hell when the Mayor had tried to ascend. Surely, in no normal universe would a Watcher rely on vampires to do the job of a missing Slayer.

As always when he remembered the glimpse of innocence he had been given, bubblegum pink lips closing over a lollipop on a carefree, sunny day, the void ached in his chest. He raised a hand to his heart, disguising the movement by tugging his jacket closed. Something was missing in his life, something that could have made him better. Worthier. What he did with Giles, helping as he could, wasn’t enough. This wasn’t why he had come to Sunnydale. This wasn’t the deal he had been offered. “I was supposed to help her,” he muttered.

“So you’ve told me.” Giles sighed wearily. “Believe me, I wish the Slayer had come here as she was asked to. Last I heard, she was down in Texas. Maybe she’ll deign visit us in the future.” 

There was just enough of an edge to his words that Angel knew he didn’t really believe she’d ever show up in Sunnydale. Apparently, the Council of Watchers had been unable to make her do anything so far. She patrolled and killed demons and vampires alike, Giles said, but she did so on her own terms, wherever she wanted, on her own timetable. The innocence must have melted along with that lollipop. 

“But if she doesn’t come,” Giles continued, “I’ll take all the help I can find to put this town back on its feet, so to speak. Including your grand-childe’s help." 

Angel looked at him sideways and almost missed a step, his shoe catching the raised edge of the uneven pavement. 

“Yes,” Giles said, noticing his look, “I finally received duplicates of the books that were lost in the fire. He was surprisingly easy to find in there.” Much too casually, he added, “Did you know he killed two Slayers?” 

Staring straight ahead, Angel pinched his lips and didn’t respond. Two, was it? The one in China and… who else? When? Why? Not to gain Angelus’ approval anymore, certainly.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Giles asked, but he didn’t wait for Angel to reply. “And you didn’t tell me. Even when I asked him to join us.”

Rolling his eyes, Angel stopped and turned to look at Giles straight on. “I told you it was a bad idea. You didn’t listen.” 

Giles eyed the finger Angel was pointing at him then raised dark eyes to his face. “I didn’t listen because you never told me why!”

Angel shrugged, remaining silent. After all this time, Giles shouldn’t have needed him to explain every word he said.

Giles sighed again, and now he sounded tired; old. “If you two are as close as my books suggest, I’m surprised he didn’t jump at the chance to work with us.” 

“Angelus.” The name almost felt alien on Angel’s lips, and it left a bitter taste of tears and fear on his tongue. “He was close to _Angelus_. I don’t think he cares much for me. Not after the last time we met before the Initiative got to him.”

Even as he said the words, the heavy scent of sea salt that had been rising in Angel’s memory faded, replaced by that of sulfur. He grimaced. He kept forgetting that the middle of the Atlantic Ocean wasn’t where he had last seen Spike before finding him in an Initiative cell. They had met in Sunnydale before Spike had been caught, however much Angel didn’t like to think about it.

Giles questioned him with a look but he didn’t ask, for which Angel was grateful. It would have been even more difficult to explain why he was so reluctant to work with Spike if he had to explain who had freed him from the clutches of the Master’s minions.

“Will you ask him?”

Angel shook his head. “Giles—”

“I heard your reserves and I’m still asking this of you. We _need_ someone who knows how to fight. Will you please ask him to join us?”

Angel’s sigh was heavy. He didn’t want to do this. It was, as he had repeatedly said, a bad idea. But he knew Giles well enough by now to understand that the man would keep asking until Angel caved in – just like he would keep asking Spike. “I’ll ask,” he said, bowing his head. “But don’t expect him to say yes. He won’t change his mind because I’m the one asking.” 

Giles promised not to expect miracles and, hiding a yawn behind his hand, said good night. As he watched him go, Angel toyed with the idea of telling Giles he had tried while not actually talking to Spike. Going to the bleached idiot was the last thing he wanted – or rather, the next to last thing. Having an actual conversation with him was even less appealing. Had they even ever _had_ a conversation?

Still… He had told Giles he would. What did he have left if not his word?

Head low and hands shoved deep in his pockets, he let slow steps take him to the cemetery where he knew Spike resided. He found the crypt easily enough; it was empty. He looked around the place, feeling a little – just a little – sorry for Spike. While he had never had much class, this was… sad. 

Not that it was anywhere near punishment enough for all of Spike’s murders; Angel was well placed to know that, just like he knew that staking a few vampires to help Giles was nowhere near enough to start his own redemption.

Standing in the middle of the crypt and feeling both incredibly out of place and miserable, he waited for Spike’s return and tried to figure out what he would tell him.

### Part 3

Spike’s anger only leaped to new heights when he entered his crypt to find Angel there. He swung the door open wide and stepped aside before pointing at it.

“Get out.”

Angel didn’t bat an eyelash. “After you listen to me.”

Shifting to game face, Spike growled. “I said. Get the bloody fuck. Out!”

Angel still didn’t move; his voice didn’t get any louder. “ _After_ you—”

Something inside Spike snapped. He launched himself at the bastard with a wordless yell. He got two punches in and a very satisfying grunt before Angel fought back. 

One blow. One blow was all it took to send Spike to the ground. One blow to remind him just how weak not feeding enough for close to two years had made him. One blow to humiliate him. One blow to shatter the shreds of dignity he had been holding to him like an armor. One blow, and he was at Angel’s feet, unable to do anything more than listen.

“I’ve told Giles it’s a bad idea and I’m sure you’ll make him regret it fast, but he still wants your help. He’s doing patrols every night, but there’s always more vamps and demons to kill than he and his team can get to. I help. He wants you to do the same. He pays well.”

Questions submerged Spike’s mind. If Angel thought it was a bad idea, why was he here? Why was he trying to convince Spike? Was he helping the Watcher for money? Did he actually take orders from the man? How long did he expect Spike to work with him before they got to each other’s throats?

He didn’t ask any of it, though. He couldn’t, not when humiliation was boiling in his veins and choking him. Careful not to show the slightest hint of pain on his face, he stood. Blood was dripping from his split lip. He let it.

“Leave,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. 

Angel’s fisted hands disappeared into his coat’s pockets but he didn’t move. “You should feed more,” he said gruffly.

Unable to bear the pity in those eyes, Spike turned his back to the bastard. He gripped the back of the armchair with both hands so they would stop trembling. “And _you_ should leave.”

There was still no sign that Angel had heard him. He continued on his own train of thought, ignoring Spike. Had he ever done anything different? “If you had Giles’ money you could buy blood more often.”

“I said—”

Spike turned to glare at him and maybe show him to the door by force. Angel was gone, however. The only thing left of him was a handful of bills on top of the sarcophagus. With a choked growl, Spike took the three steps that separated him from the block of marble and, with a raging hand, threw the bills to the ground. 

What was he, a charity case? A bum who deserved not only pity but also a few bills fished out of a pocket to make Angel feel magnanimous? He kicked at the bills, anger blurring his vision. Angel could go fuck himself. Spike didn’t need his bloody help, didn’t need the bloody Watcher’s money, and he certainly didn’t need to feel more useless than he already was.

Leaving the scattered bills on the ground, he descended to the lower level of his crypt, intending to go to sleep. As soon as he was standing in front of his bed, however, he realized he’d never manage to sleep in the state he was in, with icy anger and burning shame battling in his veins. He stalked back upstairs and looked at the bills. He felt sick to his stomach just seeing them, just hearing again that asshole try to sound concerned, like he cared, like he still had a right to call himself Spike’s Sire.

Spike growled. Angel had abandoned that right long before. And he had all but forsaken it when advising the Watcher – repeatedly – to stake Spike.

All his anger and disgust didn’t change one simple fact, though: Spike had never been so hungry. The lone glass of blood he had bought earlier that night had been the first in far too long, and it hadn’t been anywhere near enough to stop the hunger from gnawing at his insides.

Slow, reluctant steps took him forward. Seething, he picked up the bills. They seemed to burn his fingers like acid, and he shoved them deep in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to see them or touch them anymore. Now angry at himself, at his own weakness, he strode out of the crypt. The door banged shut like a gunshot behind him.

He returned to Willy’s. Some demon laughed when he entered – laughed about him, maybe, or maybe not. Without caring to figure out what was so funny, without worrying that he was too weak, Spike crossed the room, the heels of his shoes striking the wooden floors with heavy menace. Sheer rage fueled him.

The demon and his two friends looked at him when Spike reached them. Soon, though, they weren’t looking at anything anymore, their eyes staring but unseeing as they lay, bloody and still, over the broken chairs and table, their last bottle safe in Spike’s hand.

“Who’s going to pay for that!” Willy exclaimed in horror when Spike walked over to the bar. “Don’t you have enough enemies that—”

Spike slammed Angel’s money on the counter. Willy jumped, and even if he knew he had nothing to fear from Spike, little weasel of a human that he was, he smelled like pure fear just the same. Damn, but that was a nice smell.

“Blood. Three containers. To go.”

Willy hurriedly gave him what he wanted, and none too soon made those cursed bills disappear from the counter. Spike picked up his bag and walked out, head high, his eyes challenging anyone to say a word to him or even throw a look his way. 

He made it all the way down the street before the hunger stopped him. Pulling one of the containers from the plastic bag, he tore the lid off and drank every last drop in big, gulping swallows. It tasted as foul as ever, but the night seemed a little less dark around him suddenly, the edges of the world a little sharper.

He went back to his crypt and, sitting cross-legged on his bed, drank the rest of the blood, now taking small sips to make it last as long as possible. Then he turned to the bottle he had taken from the laughing demon and his friends and drank that in one go. Burping, he lay down on the bed, arms spread on either side of him. 

He couldn’t remember anymore the last time he hadn’t been hungry. Even now, even after practically inhaling three containers of blood, he still felt like the edge of his hunger had been blunted, but not fully satisfied. Maybe if he was able to buy blood like this more often, he’d finally stop being so fucking hungry all the time. But that meant working with the souled bastard. Spike couldn’t decide whether it was worth it. 

Angel had said it, and as much as he hated it, Spike had to agree with him on that one point. It was a bad idea. They couldn’t stand each other. In their best years, at the height of their power, they had forged some semblance of a relationship, but that was long gone – and long forgotten. Too much time had passed since then for Spike to be able to look at him with anything more than anger and contempt. Too much time, and one too many betrayals. 

He wouldn’t be working _for_ Angel though, just alongside him. He might even show him up, and demonstrate what a proper demon was like.

It _was_ a bad idea, but Spike was running out of options. At least he’d be able to feed properly for a few days or weeks. 

He fell asleep with the thought that, once craving for blood didn’t obliterate every other thought as soon as it rose in his mind, he might be able to figure out how to get the bloody damn chip out of his head.

The next night, right at sunset, he went looking for the Watcher and his cronies.

### Part 4

Angel couldn’t have been more surprised when Spike showed up the next night as he, Giles and three of his helpers were cleaning up a nest. He finished staking a vampire and watched what was happening. Spike pulled the biggest of the three vamps who were attacking two of the boys as they fought back to back. He didn’t have a stake and started pummeling his adversary. After a few seconds, the vampire shook him off and began fighting back.

“Spike!”

Giles’ shout was almost drowned by the clash of the fight, but Spike heard it; he looked toward the Watcher, and pushed back his opponent to catch the stake Giles had thrown in his direction. Two seconds later, the vampire was dust. Without a pause, Spike picked another vampire and kept fighting. Angel belatedly realized he was there to fight too, not stare. Between the six of them, it only took them a few more minutes to clean the nest – although he, Spike and Giles did the majority of the staking. The barely out of high school boys Giles recruited and trained were full of good intentions, but they lacked both strength and experience.

“I think you three are done for tonight,” Giles told the boys, shaking hands with them as he always did. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Nodding, they said their goodbyes, two of them supporting the third who had twisted his ankle. Angel didn’t watch them go; instead, he watched Giles, whose eyes never left the boys until they had disappeared down the street. His lips were pressed together in a thin line. The scents of guilt and determination were always woven intricately around him when one of his helpers was hurt in a fight. When it was worse than a few bruises or superficial wounds, the scents of disgust and alcohol always clung to him for a few nights afterwards.

“Is that it, then?” Spike asked suddenly, having brushed ashes from his clothes. “Doesn’t look like you needed my help all that much if we’re all done after just one little fight.”

Giles turned a steely gaze to him. “ _They_ are done, or at least for tonight. We—” He looked from Spike to Angel and back. “—are only starting.”

Giles’ harsh, grim smile was as unexpected as Spike’s burst of laughter.

* * * *

The first night was a stroll in the park. After feeding almost enough the previous night, Spike felt more energized than he had been in some time, and he had a grand time busting that first nest. He caught a couple of admiring looks from the kids, and damn if that didn’t give a nice boost to his ego. Part of him was exasperated with himself for enjoying the attention from those _children_. Another part realized all too acutely that he had been mocked, taunted and generally laughed at by the entire demon population for two years now, despite his regular bouts of killing and mayhem. A bit of admiration – and a bit of fear once the demon numbers started dwindling – would be very nice, thank you bloody much.

The next night, the Watcher had a list. Five nests. None of them a real challenge, but just the same, dangerous enough that he hadn’t wanted to tackle them with only his kiddies and the souled wonder. Having spent his first pay on blood, Spike was in great form. He might even get to enjoy the gigs, he realized. And then he shrugged and shook his head at himself. Who was he trying to fool? He was already having more fun than he would have thought possible.

The only sore spot, as nights passed, one after the other, filled with ashes and slain demons, was Angel. The bastard all but pretended Spike wasn’t there. Not ever a look, even less a word toward him. Spike could have beaten him bloody – but that would have meant admitting he cared about what Angel did, and he’d rather have been back in an Initiative cell than give that impression in any way.

* * * *

The first time Spike fought for Giles, Angel told himself that he hadn’t changed one bit in a hundred years or so. As nights passed, he could only stand by his first assessment.

Spike still hadn’t learned the meaning of ‘quiet’, and seemed to make a point of voicing – loudly – the most asinine comments whenever the situation required silence.

He still couldn’t stand being given orders; Giles picked up on that one rather quickly, and Angel had to hide his amusement whenever Giles asked Spike to do something, knowing full well that he’d do just the opposite – and intending him to.

He still played with his prey too much, and all too often they had to wait for him to finally put an end to a vamp he was toying with before they could move on.

His accent was still as fake. Angel had tuned it out long before, but he was surprised by how long it took Giles to figure it out. The kids were oblivious, and sometimes Angel caught them trying out Spike’s strange slang words along with his accent, like an oversized leather coat they thought would make them look cool.

He still fought each battle like it was his first – and last. 

He still glanced at Angel, every so often, trying and failing to be inconspicuous, like he had once sought Angelus’ attention and approval.

He still took too many risks to get that approval. That was how he ended up with a gash five inches long and at least two inches deep in his thigh just a week after he started patrolling with Giles’ group.

He still refused to admit any weakness. He finished the fight, that night, with his teeth clenched so hard Angel was sure he could hear them crack – but not a word of pain. Not a word either when Giles told him to take the next night or two off. He simply nodded, shoved his night’s pay into his coat’s pocket, and turned on his heel. He only started limping when he was too far for the humans to notice.

What chagrined Angel the most, though, was to realize that _he_ hadn’t changed one bit either, or at least not where Spike was concerned.

* * * *

By the time Spike reached his crypt, he was in agony. He had thought at first that he’d go to Willy’s and get his nightly glass of blood and shot of alcohol, but after only a hundred yards, he knew it wasn’t going to happen. As things were, he’d be lucky to reach his crypt before sunrise. He’d have to get to Willy’s the next night, though, pain or not. He’d need blood to heal properly. He just hoped that, by then, his body would at least have started healing a little.

Old habits died hard, and he was breathing hard in exhaustion when he entered his crypt. Pushing the door closed, he leaned back against it and let himself slide to the floor. He shut his eyes tight. Myriads of black dots had been blurring his vision for the past fifteen minutes, each step he took on his bad leg making things worse. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, the first word he had allowed himself since that blade had caught him by surprise.

A second later, his eyes were snapping open. Quickly looking around the room, he frowned. Someone had been in here. He could almost have sworn it smelled like—

He saw the two innocent-looking containers on the sarcophagus at once. Even closed, the scent of blood was seeping out, tickling his nose, awakening his hunger that pain had dulled. He hoisted himself up by clinging to the door and half hopped, half limped to the sarcophagus. He picked up the first round Tupperware box and tore the lid open. He was drinking before the thought even came to him that the blood might be poisoned, or laced with holy water. He certainly had enough people who wanted him dead. The blood hadn’t been tampered with, though. Even more wondrous – it was _human_. Cold, tasting just a bit like the plastic that contained it, but deliciously, miraculously human. Spike would have given his leg – the good one – to know where it had come from.

He knew, if not where it had been bought, at least who had brought it – when he opened the second, smaller container. The smell was his first clue, but he touched his lips to the thick blood just to be sure. Memories curled on his tongue along with the familiar taste, the always-surprising strength. It was Angelus’. No, Angel’s.

He drank the blood in small, slow mouthfuls. And with each of them, he hated that bastard just a little more.

### Part 5

Two nights after getting hurt, Spike was back. Angel observed him carefully – or as carefully as he could without being too obvious – and could not see any hint of residual pain on his face or in his movements. Maybe the wound hadn’t been as bad as he had believed – or maybe the extra blood had worked even better than Angel had thought it would.

Of course, Spike didn’t acknowledge what Angel had done. Angel couldn’t honestly say he had expected a thank you. It was as true as ever – Spike hadn’t changed.

They cleared another nest that night, and Spike seemed more focused on what he was doing, less easily distracted and prompt to banter with his adversaries or allies. Angel found his attention drifting as he caught sight of him. When he fought like this, clean blows, no superfluous movements or wasted time, the memories surfaced more clearly than ever – more difficult to ignore. _He_ had taught Spike to fight like that. He had shown him these moves, and drilled them into him until Spike learned to execute them flawlessly.

In these moments, it was hard to distance himself from Angelus anymore. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

He liked even less getting so distracted that Spike had to push him away from a descending stake. He expected to be the butt of endless taunting and mocking looks for his inattention. He was surprised when Spike contented himself with a single snort and a small roll of his eyes.

Once the nest was history, Angel led the way to a demon lair he had stumbled on the previous night while going home – or at least, that was his story. These were tougher to kill than vampires, but in the end, they met the same fate.

After that, Giles called it a night. He handed out payment both to Angel and Spike, and limped away, muttering under his breath. Angel was taken aback, when he turned around, to realize that Spike was still there. Usually, he was on his way as soon as he received his cash. Hands in his duster’s pockets, he rocked on his heels, looking anywhere but at Angel.

“I’m thirsty,” he said, maybe a little too loudly.

Angel snorted. Was that what Spike wanted? He hadn’t managed to give a word of thanks but now he wanted a repeat? “Well I’m not offering tonight,” he muttered darkly.

“What if I am?” Spike said, still not looking at him. “I mean, there’s only so many beers a bloke can drink on his own.”

Angel wanted to say no. It certainly was the sensible thing to do. He and Spike hadn’t exchanged more than ten words since the night Angel had convinced him to join Giles’ fight. Sensible or not, though, he soon found himself walking alongside Spike. Still without talking.

He knew that Spike went to Willy’s just about every night and expected to end up there. Instead, Spike led the way to a regular bar. A bar filled, on that Friday night, with what looked like college students. Sunnydale’s university had reopened that fall after some much needed renovations. 

They sat at a table in the back. Spike ordered beers for both of them, and when, without having shared a word, they finished them, he ordered a second round. Only then did he say, “The music really sucks.”

Angel frowned, his glass halfway to his mouth. Music? He hadn’t even noticed it so far, drowned as it was by boisterous laughs and loud conversations. He shrugged and took a sip.

And then he realized that it had been an attempt – lame by all accounts, but an attempt just the same – at conversation. Now he felt compelled to reciprocate. But to talk about what? They really didn’t have much to talk about. 

“So…” He cleared his throat, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. “I hear you’ve killed a second Slayer?”

The ghost of a smile fleeted over Spike’s lips, and for just a moment his eyes had that faraway glint of fond memories.

“I did,” he said, his voice holding only a tenth of the cockiness Angel would have expected. “One of my best fights.”

There was a challenge in the look he threw at Angel then. _Ask me,_ he seemed to be saying without a word. _Make me tell you all about it. It’s a good story._

Angel opened his mouth and almost did ask. The words died on his tongue. He didn’t want to know how that Slayer had died. He didn’t want to hear about another murder that had roots in a few careless words Angelus had dropped in Spike’s all too eager ear a century earlier.

Struggling to find something else to talk about, he cleared his throat and asked, “Where is Dru, then?”

Spike’s features soured. He tensed. “Last I heard, she wanted to go back to Paris.” 

Angel should have let it drop. He knew he should have let it drop. And yet he didn’t. “And you let her go alone?”

“She didn’t ask for my opinion,” Spike snapped. His voice dropped to a bitter mutter. “Didn’t like that her Spike was harmless as a puppy.”

Angel couldn’t help himself. He laughed. When Spike glared at him, though, more murderous than ever, he had to explain his sudden hilarity. 

“I’d never have thought she was insane enough to think you can be harmless.” 

Very slowly, Spike blinked, then stared at him over the rim of his glass. The next instant, he buried an oddly pleased smile in his beer. Only then did Angel realize what he had said and started to feel the awkwardness of the situation. It wasn’t like him to compliment Spike, even in such a backhanded way. It had to be the beer. He wasn’t used to drinking alcohol anymore. 

“It’s getting late. I should go.”

Spike didn’t reply, and, after draining the rest of his beer, Angel stood. He left without a goodbye, though with a nod of thanks that Spike – barely – returned. 

It was a little more than a block down the street that he noticed he was being followed, and half a block after that before he could ascertain who his stalker was. He frowned as he kept walking, wondering why Spike would want to follow him home. He never got to ask; Spike disappeared when Angel reached the building where he lived.

### Part 6

There were few things Spike despised more than to realize he was acting like an idiot. One of these things was to find himself unable to stop acting like an idiot

He had known that inviting Angel to share a beer was a mistake, and he had still done it anyway, very fast so he wouldn’t have time to think too much about it and talk himself out of it. He had known, also, that they had nothing to talk about, and he still had tried to make small talk. The surprise had been to discover that Angel, while he sucked at it just as much, also tried. He had known nothing good could possibly come out of the whole harebrained notion, but he had gone through with it anyway. And he had been right. It had been a bad idea – one more. Because when Angel entered the building where he presumably lived – not a crypt, no, not for him – Spike was left feeling like an idiot. Feeling like he had expected too much, even if his expectations had been incredibly low. Feeling, also, and he’d be damned if he knew whether to laugh or rage at the thought that he had found his Sire back.

He didn’t _want_ to look at the souled bastard and immediately think _Sire_. It wasn’t like Angel had done anything to remind him of Angelus. Apart from threatening to stake him – a lot. Apart from beating him up – but that had been just one blow, and Spike had started it anyway. Apart from offering him his blood to help him heal faster. Angelus would never—

Except… he had. Once. Long ago. A few weeks before the soul.

Spike stomped on that thought the same way he stomped on his cigarette as he came to a halt. Ahead of him, maybe two hundred yards forward, half hidden by a few skeletal trees, the Watcher and his pitiful army were assembling. Angel was there, already, head low, talking to Giles. Spike took in a deep breath and made up his mind. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps, returning to the street before he could be noticed. He didn’t feel like fighting that night. His leg still bothered him – or at least, that would be his story if anyone asked.

The next night, he found another excuse; he didn’t know where the group was supposed to meet, and he didn’t feel like tracking them down.

The third night, he didn’t even bother making up an excuse. He went out and played a few games of pool. He had to be careful about it, and lose often enough. Once, he had trounced his adversary so thoroughly that the guy had come back with a friend. Even if he had been feeding right at the time, Spike wouldn’t have been able to defend himself; they were both humans.

When he returned to his crypt in the early hours of morning, Giles was waiting, leaning against his door, arms crossed.

“I located a demons’ lair,” he said without further greeting. “We have to take them down tomorrow night before they start some sort of ritual. I need you to be at the entrance of the Sunset Park at nine.”

Spike lit up a cigarette, giving himself time to think about Giles’ words. More than the words themselves, it was the Watcher’s tone that irked him. It was the same tone he had heard for the handful of weeks he had been an unwilling guest in Giles’ home, with no valuable information to share and the threat of a stake hanging over him the whole time. He took his first long drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “No.”

Giles pushed away from the door. His arms still crossed, he walked up to Spike and stared him down. “I didn’t ask if you’d be there, Spike. I told you to be there.”

Spike’s demon wanted to come to the forefront. He fought it back, for no other reason that he doubted writhing on the ground and clutching his head in pain would impress Giles. Instead, he blew a mouthful of smoke directly at his face. Giles didn’t even blink.

“And you think your word is law?” he drawled.

“No. I _think_ I’ll get cranky if you don’t show up. I’ve been known to do rash things when I get cranky. Like burn down places. Or people. You might have heard about it?”

Spike had done more than hear about it. He’d smelled it all over the man, that one time when, in the same week, the Master, the Mayor and the Initiative had all plucked one of his boys right from his hands. The three wannabe-rulers of the town had ended up taking each other down, sure, but Spike had no doubt who had corralled them all to the final showdown. 

He wanted to grimace at the memory but managed not to show any feeling. Giles left without another word, and Spike barely stopped himself from shouting at his retreating back that Giles didn’t scare him.

Just the same, scared or not, he was at Sunset Park the next night ten minutes before nine.

The demons might have wanted to bring forth an apocalypse or create a new breed of adorable puppies for all Spike cared. He was given a sword and pointed toward a bunch of chanting purple and gray things. He went and sliced a few of them open to see what color their insides were. Strange how blood came in all sorts of colors, sometimes as thick as sludge and sometimes as fluid as wine, but it always smelled like blood. Spike was about to share his insight, at some point during the fight, but the closest fighter was Angel. He kept his mouth shut and continued to hack and slay.

When only Giles’ troops were left standing over the half-erased pentagrams, Spike handed back the sword, receiving a few bills in exchange. Less than usual, he noted, but decided not to complain.

He started walking away with barely a grunt of goodbye. Before he had taken more than a dozen steps, however, Angel was catching up with him. 

“I owe you a beer.” 

Spike looked at him sideways, never breaking his stride. He wanted to say that he wasn’t thirsty, but the truth was, he was always thirsty after a good fight. Always hungry, too, but that could wait. Angel seemed just as surprised as he was when he heard himself say, "Not beer. Real drinks.” 

They went to the same bar as before. It was quieter this time, the middle of the week keeping coeds away. Angel asked for a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured them himself, no more than two fingers at a time, refilling often. 

“Why do you do it?” Spike asked out of the blue, and at Angel’s frown he explained, “I need the cash. Do you?” 

Angel gave a little shrug that could have meant just about anything. He finished his glass and, as he served himself again, said very quietly, “I was told I could help here.”

Cocking his head, Spike observed him for an instant. “Why would you _want_ to?”

Angel just stared at him, and after a second or two, Spike got it. He snorted.

“Yeah. OK. Got me there. So you were told to help the Watcher?”

“No.” Angel’s gaze dropped to the golden liquid in his glass. It swirled at the small movement of his wrist. “The Slayer was supposed to come here.”

Spike sat up in his chair, his interest increasing exponentially. “The Slayer?”

And then it hit him, like a punch to the stomach that left him breathless. It didn’t matter who came to this sorry excuse for a town or who didn’t. It wasn’t like he could do a thing about it. He drained his glass in one swallow, and grabbed the bottle before Angel could, this time filling his glass to the brim.

Oblivious to Spike’s darkening mood, Angel continued, “She didn’t come. But I can still help.”

Spike emptied his glass, barely tasting the alcohol at all. “You think what you’re doing with that sad bunch of humans helps anything?”

Frowning, Angel tried to take the bottle back from Spike, but Spike scowled at him and Angel shrugged. “You’re doing the same thing,” he pointed out.

“Yeah.” Spike chuckled dryly and soothed his throat with another drink. “Money if I do. Burned in my own crypt if I don’t. That was a hard choice there. So tell me, are you going to help him the day he decides I can’t help anymore and he wants me dust?”

Angel frowned at him but didn’t reply. Figuring he had his answer, Spike stood – a little too fast, and the world wavered for a second before settling down again. Without a word of goodbye, he left the bar. As he staggered out, he raised his face to the sky. Damn it, when had it started raining?

Muttering curses, he shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. He had taken three steps like this before he stumbled for the first time, his foot catching on… nothing he could see. Probably something supernatural, hellmouthy and invisible. Bloody town.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Angel caught up with him for the second time that night. What he did know was that it was raining harder than ever. And Angel looked pissed.

“You’re drunk,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“What if I am?” Spike replied, stepping toe to toe with him to stare him down. Or rather, that was the plan. Somehow, though, he was soon staring up from the vantage point of a puddle on the pavement.

Angel sighed in a very dramatic fashion. Poofster.

“You can’t even walk without tripping over your own feet?”

Spike wanted to reply – something mean, something cutting, something that would put the great bastard in his place and make him stop looking at Spike like he was nothing but a disappointment. He was distracted by a hand thrust in front of his face.

“Do you even have hot water in that crypt?”

Grunting, he tried batting the too helpful hand away. He wasn’t too sure how he ended up clutching it.

Angel sighed again. “Come on, then.”

Drunk or not, Spike didn’t know how he could have said no.

### Part 7

The storm was still raging outside, but as he sat on the edge of his bed, hands clenched on his knees, all Angel could hear was the shower running in his bathroom. Why in hell had he offered that hot shower to Spike? As far as bad ideas went, this one won it all. It wasn’t like Spike would have caught a cold from tripping into a puddle. But he had looked so pitiful, sitting there, drenched as a kitten who had only narrowly escaped drowning…

Standing, Angel tried to stop that train of thoughts. He had to be more drunk than he had thought if his mind could associate Spike and anything not only defenseless but also cute. Spike was neither. 

The bathroom door opened and Spike stepped out, his wet jeans tight on his legs but his torso bare. Angel tried not to wince. Not cute, no, definitely not. Too thin, clearly underfed, with a few bruises marring his pale skin like strange blossoms. Not cute at all, but maybe, in that strange way of his, beautiful. Angel cleared his throat and tried to keep his eyes on Spike’s face.

“Do you want something dry to wear?” he offered, his words coming out much rougher than he had expected.

After a slow blink, Spike nodded. “Not that I’ll stay dry very long,” he said as Angel turned to his dresser. “It sounds like it’s going to rain all night.”

_And you sound like you’re not all that drunk anymore,_ Angel thought, but he kept the comment to himself as he handed a shirt to Spike. He had absolutely not picked it because the color would bring out Spike’s eyes. He watched as long fingers buttoned the shirt, starting from the bottom and slowly moving up, hiding silky skin as they went. It was much too big on Spike’s smaller frame. It made him look even frailer.

“Do you want to wait here until the rain slows down?” he heard himself say, and wasn’t too sure where the suggestion had come from.

Spike shrugged and, hands in his pockets, looked around the small apartment. Angel felt very self-conscious suddenly. He had to say something before Spike did – before he broke that unspoken truce and smirked his way into something Angel couldn’t ignore.

“Hungry?” he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. Angel _was_ hungry, from their fight, their drinking, and too many memories demanding that he pay attention to them. “I’ve got blood.”

Spike turned a lazy grin toward him. “I know you do. Didn’t expect you to offer again.”

It was probably as close to a thank you as Angel would get – not that he wanted to be thanked. He didn’t care what Spike thought. He wasn’t even sure anymore why he had opened a vein for the idiot.

“I’ve got blood _in my fridge_ ,” he said, crossing his arms.

He could see Spike’s hesitation on his face as clearly as though it had been written out in words. Eventually, he shook his head. “I’ll just go.”

He didn’t move, though. Neither did Angel.

“Maybe you should, yes.”

A few more seconds passed, still with no movement from either of them.

“I guess I will, then,” Spike said – immobile save for the slow tilting of his head to one side.

In Angel’s mind, that same tilt was familiar. All too familiar. Sometimes, it was followed by a suggestive smirk. Sometimes, by a few cutting words. Sometimes by the uncertain look of a young man still trying to figure out who he had become. But always, always it was invitation for Angel’s hand – Angelus’ – to wrap at the back of his neck and pull him closer. 

Angel’s hands tightened into fists. He forced himself to remain still as stone.

“You know it’d be a bad idea,” he said very low, his words leaving his throat as rough as sandpaper. “Everything that happened tonight was a bad idea.”

Spike snickered, the invitation vanishing from his eyes. “What happened? We drank? We had what passes for a civilized talk for us?” 

Angel sighed heavily. “You know what I mean.”

Spike broke the status quo by taking two steps forward, glaring at Angel through narrowed eyes. “Do I? I’m not sure I do. You tell me, Angel. Which idea was worse? Inviting me here tonight or not staking me the moment you realized I was in town? Ah, but wait. You couldn’t, could you? Stuck as you were in that dungeon, a toy for the Master’s pets?” 

If possible, his stare hardened even more. It was as icily cold, as void of emotions as it had been, that first night when he had strolled in after Willow and Xander and observed their games.

“Yeah. I’m starting to understand that bad idea thing,” he spat. “I’ve had my fair share myself since I came into this sorry town. Starting with the night I let you out of that cage! I should have let you to die in there!”

Angel didn’t move or react in any way. He had made enough mistakes so far. Spike might be unable to touch a human, but he was still the same. Exactly the same. As brash, as bloodthirsty, as angry, as destructive as ever. The same as when Angel had left him, left his family, unable to bear the presence of killers any longer. Unable to endure the pity he imagined in their eyes. Unwilling to explain when he knew they would never be able to understand.

And that hadn’t changed either. Spike’s chip was not a soul. It did not give him any insight on what Angel felt, what he endured, day after day.

With a shake of his head, he turned his back on Spike, wishing he’d get out of the apartment already.

* * * *

Insults, demeaning words, dismissive looks, Spike could have dealt with. Angel turning his back on him, on the other hand, enraged him beyond words or reason. Why offer him his blood, a drink, a hot shower, a bloody shirt if in the end he wasn’t even able or willing to look at Spike?

The expensive fabric ripped with a sound not unlike thunder when Spike tore the shirt off his chest. The shreds fell at his feet. Angel still didn’t look at him. With a yell, he threw himself at Angel, much like he had, that first night in the crypt. The difference was, he wasn’t starving anymore. That, and he had rarely been so angry with the man in front of him.

They kept it at punches, at first. Then, one of Angel’s poncy pieces of art shattered, jostled from its pedestal, and it was like a signal. Spike shifted to game mask first, Angel following suit at once. No more rules. No more holding back. A hundred years or so of frustration, anger and resentment coalesced in Spike’s veins, urging him forward. He didn’t know what anger pushed Angel to fight just as viciously in return. He didn’t care. All he cared about was inflicting pain, as much as he could. All he wanted was to see Angel’s blood spilled beneath his hands.

Spike couldn’t have said how much time had passed, how many blows they had traded when they both froze in the same instant. Spike had launched himself at Angel, toppling him to the floor. Angel’s hands came to encircle Spike’s neck even as Spike drew back his fist, preparing a punch that never landed.

Between their suddenly still bodies, their cocks, beneath bloodied clothes, were equally hard. Spike made himself look at Angel; there was no trace left of the soul behind those amber eyes, and it would have almost been easy to believe—

“Get off me.”

A few more seconds passed before Spike stood. Without another look at Angel, he picked up his duster by the door and was out before he had even slipped it on. It was raining harder than ever, but Spike didn’t notice as he stormed back toward his crypt, leaving a trail of broken gravestones like as many breadcrumbs.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking anyone would come after him.

That was it, he decided as he slammed his door behind him, making the entire crypt shake almost as hard as he was shaking. He was done.

### Part 8

Angel didn’t sleep, after he had cleaned up the mess Spike had left behind. Somehow, that still felt familiar, even after all this time, and it comforted Angel that it had been the right call. Going down that memory lane would have brought nothing good to either of them. Better not to go further than those drinks.

Part of him dreaded going to patrol that night, but when he arrived a few minutes late at the rendez-vous point and found Giles alone, he admitted to himself what he had known, deep down, all along. Spike would need time to lick his wounds before he showed up again.

“If I had known the vampires would play hooky tonight, I wouldn’t have given the night off to the kids.”

Angel didn’t pay much mind to Giles’ remark, knowing it was meant to be teasing even if it sounded anything but. Two years had passed since he had first met the Watcher, but Giles had hardened a lot during that time. Witnessing too many deaths – and being responsible by the sole virtue of being in charge – could do that to a man.

“Sorry about that. Are you ready to go? Where are we starting tonight?

Giles gave him a puzzled look. “You don’t want to wait for Spike?” 

“I don’t think he’s coming. I mean, I don’t think he’ll come back for a while.”

The puzzlement turned into an outright frown. “Why not?”

Angel shrugged.

“Right.” Giles sighed and, with a tilt of his head, indicated the way they were starting. “I guess I’ll have another talk with him later.”

As he pulled a stake from his jacket’s pocket, Angel was careful to keep his eyes ahead of him. He didn’t want to glare at Giles. That wouldn’t help a thing. “Talk to him,” he said mildly, “or threaten him? Just leave him be. When he gets hungry enough, he’ll come back.”

Angel wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Even Spike had a breaking point, and Angel had a feeling he might just have found it the previous night, quite by accident.

“I don’t think—” Giles started, sounding put off, but Angel didn’t let him finish.

“Giles, I’ve followed you for two years without questions. Trust me on that one. Leave him be. He could do more harm forced to fight with us than left alone.”

He knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as Giles stopped walking. Wincing, he turned to look at him. Giles was frowning again, his eyes detailing Angel as though trying to figure out what he wasn’t quite saying.

“There’s an easy solution to that,” he said, his words darker than the night around them.

Angel shook his head. This was not where he had wanted to lead Giles, far from it. “You’re not killing him.”

A silent chuckle shook Giles’ body. “Not ten days ago you wanted to do it yourself.”

“I guess I changed my mind.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Angel answered too fast, too defensively.

Giles crossed his arms, observing him closely. In his eyes, Angel could see all the knowledge acquired in books, but more than that, he could see the gleam of experience that sometimes hinted Giles might not always have been a Watcher. “You wanted him staked from the moment we found him in that cell,” he said, each word slow and precise. “Do not try to tell me you changed your mind without reason. I’m not that stupid.”

Their eyes clashed. Angel ground his teeth, refusing to say a word. Giles had no right to demand to know this.

They could have remained in stalemate all night if not for noises nearby. At the same time, they turned to the decrepit factory from which shouts, laughter and loud music were rising. It could have been a co-eds' impromptu party – if not for the fact that co-eds in this town knew better than to attract attention. With a few gestures and nods, Giles and Angel planned their attack. Angel had a stake in each hand; Giles only swore by his crossbow. They had done this dozens of times. They rushed in, never noticing that the laughter died before they reached the main room, and the shouting subsided very soon after. All that was left was the blaring music, and even that stopped when a girl kicked a boom-box off a chair with a heavy leather boot. Angel froze, recognizing her at once even after all this time, even if she had changed so much. Gone were pink lips, innocent eyes and the blonde curtain framing her face. Instead, a scar ran across her mouth, her eyes were pure steel when they found him, and her braid swung at her back as she rushed forward, a stake in her right hand.

Angel couldn’t move a muscle, not to save his life. She had finally come to Sunnydale. 

“Wait, Buffy, don’t!”

Giles’ shout stopped her hand mere inches from Angel’s heart. She stepped back, just far enough to be out of direct reach from both Angel and Giles, still poised on the verge of an attack.

“How do you know my name?” she asked. Her words were clipped, sharp, the words of someone who had no time to lose. 

She’d been running for years, Giles had said. Now that Angel could see her, see the darkness in her eyes, he knew what she had been running from. Death. And he’d be damned if he knew what to say or do to help her. It was supposed to be simple. Show up and help. But she wasn’t the lollipop girl anymore. Was she? 

“I’m a Watcher,” Giles said, speaking fast as though to match her speed. “Your Watcher, technically, but—”

As fast as he talked, it wasn’t enough. She cut him short. “Funny, that guy in Austin said the same thing.”

“Well he was mistaken,” Giles said, wounded pride piercing through. “You were supposed to come to Sunnydale and if you had I’d have taught you—”

She snorted. In her hand, the stake was rolling, back and forth, as though she were looking for the best grip. “There’s nothing you can teach me.”

“I’ll beg to differ on that. I know a few things—”

“Like why I shouldn’t stake this vamp?”

She gestured toward Angel, for the first time looking at him again directly, though he had no doubt she had been keeping a sharp eye on him. Was it a trick? An invitation to attack at a perceived vulnerability?

“Like that, yes.” Giles was talking in his natural cadences now, no longer rushing through his words. He seemed to have realized that didn’t guarantee she’d listen. “He’s been working for me for two years. He has a soul.”

For the first time, Angel could see his opening. He jumped on it. “I do. I came here to help you. I—”

Her eyes dismissed him before returning to Giles. “You’re a Watcher. And you work with a vampire. Is this what passes for a joke in this town?”

“Joke?” The word snapped when it passed Giles’ lips. He walked closer to her and glared down at her. “You think it’s a joke that we’ve had to deal with a half dozen apocalypses without you because you were off wandering God knows where?”

She glared right back, crossing her arms defensively. “It wasn’t like I was visiting Disneyworld or something! I was slaying!”

“I know that!” Giles seemed to realize his voice was rising with each word. He breathed in deeply and calmed down. “I _know_ ,” he repeated. “Please, I don’t mean to dismiss the work you’ve done. We’ve just had our hands particularly full with the Hellmouth and we certainly could use your help. If you plan to do more than pass through town?”

She calmed right along with him, but she wasn’t convinced yet. “You keep saying ‘we’. You mean you and the vampire?”

“And a few other volunteers, yes.”

She shook her head sharply. “I work alone.”

“So you’ve said,” Giles agreed, placating. “But there’s a lot I can tell you about this town and the demons here.”

No more ‘we’, Angel noticed with a rising sense of dread. He had kept mostly quiet so far, leaving to Giles the job of winning her over, but it seemed like Giles had decided he couldn’t win on all fronts.

“I can help—” Angel started, but she cut him with a sharp look.

“You can help yourself by staying away from me. I’m letting you go now. I might not be so lenient next time.”

They left side by side, Giles still trying to convince her he had information that would prove capital to her. Angel let them go, not even bothering to watch her walk away with all his hopes – all his expectations.

He had been waiting for her all this time, and she didn’t even want his help. Didn’t want to hear him explain. Didn’t want a vampire for an ally. He felt like an idiot. Of course she didn’t. She was the Slayer.

What was he supposed to do now?

* * * *

Spike was in the middle of venting his frustration by kicking a couple of demons’ asses - although identifying said asses amongst the tentacles was proving rather difficult – when he received some unexpected help. He finished one of the two demons, and turned to watch as what he was pretty sure was a Slayer finished the other. Then she turned to him and pulled a stake from somewhere. Spike grinned, momentarily forgetting that this couldn’t possibly be good.

“Buffy, don’t.”

Giles sounded distinctly out of breath as he jogged into the clearing, going as far as to rest a hand against a tree for support. She scowled at him.

“What, this is another one of your pet vampires?”

Spike stood a little straighter, offended. “I’m nobody’s pet, _pet_.” 

Her smile showed just a few too many teeth. “Then you’re up for a staking.”

Giles’ wheezing attempts at stopping her didn’t work one bit – not that Spike complained. The stake had disappeared again and she was using her fists and feet. She had quite a style to her, Spike thought as he danced around her, avoiding most hits and blocking a few. She reminded him of the Slayer in New York. What a grand time he had had…

His memories were his downfall. Caught into a long-finished fight, he forgot that defending was the extent of what he could do. He tried to attack. And collapsed to the ground, his hands already clutching his head. Even in the early days, before the chip had started to train him, it had never hurt so badly.

But then, he had never wanted to kill anyone as much as he wanted to do in Slayers.

“He’s harmless,” Spike heard Giles say as though from a great distance away. “He can’t hurt humans. Some kind of computer chip in his brain…”

_I’ll show you harmless,_ Spike wanted to reply, and the chip only fired anew.

More arguing went on, but he couldn’t understand a word of it, not when Big Ben was ringing in his skull, celebrating an endless midnight.

When the pain started subsiding, when he could open his eyes again and risk stumbling back to his feet, Giles was standing a short distance away, alone, his glasses in hand.

“She’s more hardline than I could afford to be,” he said, not quite looking at Spike. “She won’t patrol with vampires. But I’ve been in Sunnydale longer than she has. I know how much work there is to do here. If you’re going to do this, I’ll keep giving you money. You can tell Angel the same thing goes for him too.”

Spike grunted. “Why would I tell the bastard?”

Frowning, Giles finally turned his eyes to him. “Haven’t you seen him? I thought…” He gave a small shake of his head. “He hasn’t come since Buffy arrived three nights back. I went to his place but he didn’t open. Talk to him for me.”

He left with those words, presumably to run after his Slayer. Spike snorted. He’d be crazy to keep patrolling if that little spitfire stayed around. He had a feeling he owed his life, or what was left of it, to Giles – again. He couldn’t say the thought was all that pleasant.

Still shaking off the last dull throbs of a headache, he went to buy blood – and ended up with two bottle of whiskey instead. Before he knew it, he was letting his steps take him to Angel’s place.

Either the bastard was there and brooding that the Slayer didn’t care for his help, or she had dusted him already. In both cases, the alcohol would be put to good use.

### Part 9

If asked to describe Giles, Angel would undoubtedly have used the word ‘persistent’. Then he might have borrowed from Spike and called him a wanker, for good measure. For the third night in a row, he was back, knocking on Angel’s door. Apparently not being allowed in the past two nights had not shaken his resolve. He didn’t call out Angel’s name, this time. Angel supposed he was tiring.

He thought so up to the moment when the banging intensified, and the door finally broke down. He looked up to see not Giles as he had expected, but, of all people, Spike stroll in as though he owned the place. Angel closed his eyes; maybe if he pretended Spike wasn’t there, he would actually leave.

Then again, it was Spike, so he didn’t really think it would work.

Heavy steps thudded on the floor, bringing Spike closer. His voice fell from what seemed like great heights, shattering at Angel’s feet.

“The floor’s comfortable, then?” he said blandly.

Angel didn’t reply.

“And I guess the dark helps the brooding, huh?”

There was a definite sneer behind those words. Angel still didn’t reply.

“Thought she had killed you,” Spike said after a few seconds of blissful silence. “She’s a little spitfire, isn’t she?”

Angel flinched, remembering lost innocence and scarred lips. Did she still like lollipops? He doubted it. 

“So when are you going to start working with her? Oh wait, she doesn’t work with vamps.”

A snarl rose from Angel’s chest before he was even aware of it. He opened his eyes and glared for all he was worth. “Go away, Spike.”

It would have been too much to hope Spike would listen. He squatted in front of Angel and peered at him, his lips set on a smile that tried for cruel but failed miserably. “What, and miss a chance to torture you?”

Angel would have given the world to wipe the smirk off Spike’s face. He raised his hand, ready to take a swing – and changed his mind when he noticed the paper bag Spike held in front of him. The necks of a couple of bottles were just sticking out. Angel grabbed one and twisted the cap off.

He would have thought Spike would protest as he took his first swig. Instead Spike pulled out the second bottle and, as he sat cross-legged in front of Angel, he opened it and raised it in a toast.

“To wankers who can’t raise a finger on stupid humans.”

It was just so… unexpected? Ridiculous? Pathetic? – that Angel snorted as he raised his bottle and clanked it against Spike’s. Gently. Fifteen year old aged whiskey; now was not the time to break bottles. 

On a different night, he might have been amused, just a little, that while he had brought and shared blood with Spike when he had been wounded, Spike had brought him alcohol. Predictable. And fitting. Wasn’t Spike himself dangerously intoxicating?

“So, you met her, then?” Angel asked when about a third of the bottle had burned a trail down his throat.

Spike took an extra-long swallow before he answered. “I had the pleasure, yes.” He snickered. “Stuck up bitch, that one. Needs to be shagged properly before—”

Angel’s growl surprised even him. 

Spike eyed him warily. “What?” he said, now defensive. “You’ve been hiding in the dark for three days because she didn’t want to play with you. You’re not going to defend her, are you?”

“Shut up,” Angel grunted. “I wasn’t hiding. I was thinking.”

Spike started laughing with the bottle still at his lips, and alcohol spilled at the corners of his mouth. There was just enough light for Angel to watch it roll down his throat. He tightened his hand on the neck of his own bottle so he wouldn’t reach to grab Spike, pull him close and follow that trail of golden amber with his lips and tongue.

“Right,” Spike said, still laughing. “Thinking. If that’s what you want to call it. Did you discover the meaning of life or something with all that thinking?”

“Shut up,” Angel said again, and this time, quite to his surprise, Spike did.

The bottles seemed to empty much too fast. And Angel felt tipsy much too soon. Not having fed the past three nights certainly wasn’t helping on that front. 

Spike looked up at him with clouded eyes as he stood, leaving the bottle on the floor. “Go home, Spike,” he said, slurring the words a little. He found his way to the bed without stumbling too much, and lay down on his stomach without bothering to get undressed. He closed his eyes and started drifting toward sleep. When he felt the bed dip next to him, he mumbled a protest – and received an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

“Told you to go home,” he grunted without opening his eyes.

A few seconds – hours – trickled by before Spike replied. “I did.”

Somehow, this seemed like the most sensible, reasonable reply he had ever heard Spike utter. He kicked him in the shin just the same.

“If you steal the blankets I’ll stake you.”

Spike snorted. And then the blankets – which had been trapped beneath Angel – found their way over him. He fell asleep pondering this deep mystery of life.

* * * *

Waking up in a strange bed next to a very still body wasn’t new. Neither was waking up with the taste of alcohol still thick on his tongue, or the feeling that he had either drunk far too much or far from enough. Waking up in his sire’s bed, for that matter, wasn’t a new experience either. No, what felt weirdly alien to Spike when he woke up that morning was that he was still fully clothed, so was Angel, and no shagging whatsoever had taken place in that bed.

Three sad facts that he intended to remedy before long.

Undressing himself was the easy part. He let his clothes fall over the edge of the bed before turning to Angel and pondering his options. The great lummox had turned over in his sleep and was now lying on his back. That opened a few possibilities as to what Spike could do to him before he woke up completely. 

Tie him up came immediately to mind. He’d have to improvise on the restraints but at least he would be sure that the bastard wouldn’t try to run away to protect his virtue. 

Suck him off was another old favorite. Spike was good enough to free his cock without waking him up, and then… A sweet, slow suck, one that made the tension curl along Angel’s balls until he was humping desperately into Spike’s mouth? Or a fast, hungry one, that would leave Angel breathless and begging for Spike to go on, harder, just like that…

Spike curled a loose fist around his cock as he thought, scenarios playing in front of his half-closed eyes. In all these scenarios, he noticed, Angel was stark naked.

Right then. That was as good a place to start as any. He’d undress him, and then play things by ear once Angel started awakening.

He hadn’t tugged more than a couple of shirt buttons free, however, before Angel’s hand snapped over his wrist, stilling him.

“What ‘re you doing?”

Spike rolled his eyes, but Angel’s eyes were still closed and the effect was lost on him. “What do you think?”

Angel grunted. He blinked several times, very fast, as though forcing his eyelids open was an arduous feat. Finally he was fixing Spike with dark eyes that glowed just a little with gold around the pupil. “That’s a bad idea,” he said very low, still holding on to Spike’s hand.

Spike didn’t sneer, though he wanted to really badly. There were those words again. Bad idea. Angel was a bastard – but that was nothing new. “Why?” he asked tonelessly. “Give me one reason why this is a bad idea.”

The tip of Angel’s tongue passed over his lips. Spike’s cock answered with a twitch that went unnoticed. 

“I don’t deserve—”

Spike snorted. He should have known he’d get some idiotic answer. “What does fucking have to do with deserving?”

Angel didn’t reply. He still didn’t let go either. His thumb was running small circles on the inside of Spike’s wrist.

“You’re saying you don’t want me?” Spike asked very low, daring him to lie.

Angel didn’t lie – at least not in words. He shook his head.

Wrenching his hand free, Spike punched him. “You bastard. You fucking liar. Who are you trying to fool? Yourself? I’m not good enough for you, is that it? I was never good enough, was I? All this time—”

The second blow never hit. Angel captured his wrist again, then the other one, and used the leverage to roll their bodies over. He then shut Spike up by pressing a harsh kiss to his mouth. “You always talked too much,” he growled as he pulled away. The small movement pressed their bodies a little tighter together – and Angel’s body, at least, didn’t lie. Spike relaxed just a little.

“One of us has to talk seeing how the other can’t string more than five words together. The caveman routine—”

Angel shifted to his game face and leaned over Spike. “I said, you talk too much.”

Spike smirked. _Now_ they were getting somewhere. “Yeah? What you gonna do about it?”

### Part 10

What Angel did, to shut Spike up, was first to plunder his mouth. He’d forgotten he was in game face, but Spike apparently hadn’t. He upped the ante by slicing his own tongue on Angel’s fangs. The first time, Angel thought it had been an accident; when Spike did the exact same thing on the other side, he knew it was anything but. Sweet, familiar blood filled his mouth with the taste of home, and he rumbled into Spike’s mouth, running the tip of his tongue against the bleeding cuts. They closed far too soon, but the taste of Spike’s blood, his smell were all Angel knew anymore. Had he thought, the previous night, that Spike was intoxicating? He was that, certainly, and more.

Skin to skin came none to soon. Angel couldn’t remember the last time he had bucked against someone like this, felt callused fingers on his cock, another cock sliding against him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. This moment was enough. This moment was all that mattered. That, and the low moan in Spike’s throat when Angel thrust against him.

“Do it.”

If it hadn’t been so long, if Spike’s blood hadn’t been coating his tongue still, if Angel hadn’t been so desperate already, he would have teased Spike – and himself – by taking his time. He might have nipped at Spike’s skin, sometimes breaking the skin and sometimes not. He might have explored each inch of his body, rediscovering old, faded scars, and learning more recent ones. He might have closed his hand over Spike’s dick and brought him, thrashing and begging, within a second of coming before stopping him, and then, _then_ he would have entered his body, pushed past that always tight ring and made him writhe and plead and sob and curse his name and promise anything, anything if Angel would just let him come.

But it had been too long, and Angel was close to pleading himself. Next time, though, next time…

He never stopped to wonder why he was so sure there would be a next time.

For once helpful, Spike clasped the back of his knees and pulled his legs up, opening himself to Angel’s eyes and hands. Angel looked at his face, his mouth opening on a teasing remark, but he closed it again without a word. Spike’s eyes had never seemed so blue; so huge; so vulnerable. He shifted back to his human guise without a thought. One hand on Spike’s hard cock, he presented him with two fingers and said, his voice rough with need, “Suck.”

He expected to be given lip, but Spike merely did as he was asked, drawing the two fingers into his mouth and curling his tongue around them, stroking as though—

Angel groaned and pulled his fingers free from that sinful mouth. Spike’s smirk made it all too clear that he knew exactly what he had been doing. That smirk soon disappeared, though, when Angel pressed those two slick fingers against his ass and breached him. 

“ _God_ you’re tight…”

His fingers tightening at the back of his knees, Spike grunted. “Think I just let anyone fuck me?”

Angel’s blood boiled at the thought. He pulled his fingers free and lined up his cock with Spike’s entrance. He pushed in fast, hard, and Spike’s howl answered his own.

Neither of them lasted very long. That was all right. They had all… night? Day? Angel wasn’t sure, as he fell asleep, lying half on top of Spike. He didn’t really care.

He woke up hours – minutes? – later to the feel of strong but gentle hands massaging his back. He groaned into the pillow, positively melting. This was nice. This was better than nice. This was…

He tensed as the hands ventured lower and started kneading his ass, pulling the cheeks apart so that Spike’s thumbs could run along his crack and brush against his hole.

“What are you doing?”

Spike snorted, and Angel could feel the puff of air on the exposed flesh of his crack. “Again with the stupid questions.”

The first swipe of Spike’s tongue took him by surprise and he moaned, but soon he regained control of himself and started to turn away. He made his voice as strong as he could manage and said, “You’re not fucking me.”

Spike’s hands clenched and held him in place. “Yes I am.”

Angel growled. “Spike—”

“What? Angelus would have cut off my balls if I had tried to stick it to him. You’re saying you’re going to do something like that?”

Angel froze at hearing that word – that name – resurface between them. He wasn’t Angelus – and, as much as he had told himself that Spike hadn’t changed one bit, he wasn’t sure anymore that it was true. The truth was, they were both different enough – and both similar enough – to what they had once been. They wouldn’t have been in the same bed otherwise. 

“Well?” he snapped, his pitch just a little too high, when Spike hadn’t done more than hold him down for almost a full minute. “Get it over with.”

Spike laughed, a deep, rich laugh that curled around Angel's balls like a hand. “Oh no, you don’t get to pretend you’re not enjoying it. You’re not a martyr and this isn’t some kind of punishment.”

He proved it by making Angel come with just his tongue and fingers. And _then_ he fucked him. 

As far as ideas went, Angel thought, deciding to let him do this wasn’t such a bad one.

* * * *

It was several hours before Angel stirred again, a fact that caused Spike to be incommensurately smug. He’d always known that all Angel needed was a good, deep fucking.

Of course, the bastard had to ruin it all with a wary, “Now what?”

Spike groaned. “You think too much. _Now_ I’m going to go wash up. Then I’ll find some blood. And possibly a couple demons to kill.” 

He climbed over Angel to get off the bed – and couldn’t resist swatting at that fine ass as he went. Angel caught his wrist before he could walk away unpunished.

“Do you want company?” he asked, the words muffled against his pillow.

Spike allowed himself a small smile. “For which part?”

“Any? All?”

“I suppose I could use a hand.”

They both gave the other a hand, in the end, and jerked each other off in the shower.

Then they went to get blood at Willy’s, and Spike made sure Angel fed enough; he knew all too well what hunger felt like.

Demons after that. One each. Everything going just as Spike had planned.

What he hadn’t planned, imagined, or wanted in any way was to run across the Slayer after that. She was definitely unpleasant. He couldn’t have cared less, but he saw how Angel’s shoulders slumped as she refused their help, how his eyes dimmed a little. Idiots – both of them.

When she had left, he lit up a fag and handed it to Angel, who took it without a word or a nod of thanks. 

“I thought you were here for her,” Spike said darkly.

Angel exhaled slowly. The smoke rose in faint volutes over them, vanishing like dashed hopes of redemption. “I thought so too. Not so sure, now.”

“I see.” Taking the cigarette back, Spike took a deep drag. “So you’re not here for any particular reason anymore.”

Angel gave him a blank look. He was beginning to get it, Spike thought. “I guess not.”

“Which means you could be elsewhere.”

Angel’s eyes turned in the direction where the Slayer had vanished. He gave a tiny shake of his head and sighed very quietly before saying, “I suppose.”

“Where should we go, then?”

Angel looked at him then, and Spike wondered. More than a century earlier, he, Drusilla and Darla had been found lacking by that stupid soul. Angel had run from them, never even asking if they could still look at him. Never even explaining to Spike what was going on, or giving him a chance to say that he didn’t give a damn about the soul if Angel still gave a damn about him.

There they were again. Would he be enough, this time, or found lacking again?

### Epilogue

There were a few things Spike liked about Cleveland. The first – not that he’d admit it – was the view on the lake they had from their flat. North exposure, too. He just loved fucking in front of these windows.

Another thing was the distinct and quite refreshing lack of Slayer, Watcher and wannabe demon fighters. The most they heard from Giles was when he had some tip or other to share, which suited Spike just fine.

If someone asked him, he’d even admit enjoying how bad the local sports teams were. There was just something hilarious about seeing an entire city hope together – and then groan in disappointment all at once. The funniest part was, none of them suspected their bad records had anything to do with the Hellmouth bubbling beneath the rapid station at Terminal Tower. _That_ Spike didn’t like. That place was creepy – and it had swallowed his duster on their first encounter. He still scowled at the building, sometimes, as though it were its fault.

The thing he liked most about Cleveland, though, was currently rolling his eyes at him, arms crossed, and not doing one thing to help Spike finish his kill. He’d learned the hard way not to interfere.

“Come on, Spike. Stop playing and get this over with. We’ve got another nest to check tonight.” 

Spike punched his plaything. Its teeth gleamed in the moonlight as it roared.

“All work and no play,” he said, sticking his tongue out at Angel. “As usual.”

The demon tried to claw at him. Spike ducked. Then, feeling merciful, he ended the fight quickly.

He had just dropped the body of his victim when Angel grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in for a kiss. Spike had to break it off after a few seconds or risk starting to purr. Angel would never let him hear the end of it if it happened – again.

“So,” he said, rearranging his hard dick in his pants. “Nest?”

“Nest. By the river in the Flats.”

“Big one?”

“Supposed to be decent size.”

“I got two demons so far.”

“I got four while you were playing.”

“Hmm. I guess I have to catch up then if I plan to fuck you tonight.”

“You can try to catch up. Not going to.”

“We’ll see. Something tells me you’ve missed my dick.”

“Did one of those hit you on the head? You sound delusional.”

“I’m not the one who has a problem admitting he likes a good pounding.”

“Keep it up and I’ll pound in your skull.”

“And as always we’re back to threats. Honestly, some days I wonder if you even like me.”

“Only some days? I wonder every time I see you.”

“Bastard.”

“Moron.”

“Nancy soulboy.”

“Chiphead.”

“At least I don’t weep over the poor sods I killed when I was a proper demon.”

“You were never a proper demon, Spike. And _I_ can still kick anybody’s ass if I want to.”

“Well _I_ can kick _your_ ass.”

“Thought you wanted to _shag_ it.”

“God, you can’t even say it properly. Honestly, at least the brogue sounded halfway decent.”

“The brogue wasn’t decent. It was real. Unlike that fake accent of yours.”

“And your American accent is any better? Ah. It’s as bad as their beer.”

“That means you won’t want a drink once we’re done with that nest?”

“Dunno. That brewery off West 25th wasn’t that bad.”

“Is it their beer you like or their dark corners?”

“As I recall, it was your mouth on my cock.”

“Might be time to return the favor.”

“Only if I get to fuck you afterwards.”

“You still have two less kills than I do.”

“Right. Where’s that nest again?”

Did Spike slay more demons than Angel that night? Wouldn't you like to know...!


End file.
